the wavering tree
the rolling stone
the shaking plea
a place called home
a hopeless need
chilled to the bone
a want for warmth
and a shoulder to cry on.
to get out of the storm,
and to never be left alone
but that hope was tattered and torn
a good thing she had never been shown.
all she knew was laughter and scorn.
the cold and numb was always present always known,
shown not the rose, but only the thorn.
to find nothing more to shine but our tombstone.